


Pleached Branches

by arenoseAnima



Category: Homestuck
Genre: BDSM, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-23
Updated: 2011-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:19:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arenoseAnima/pseuds/arenoseAnima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A typical evening in the Lalonde-Maryam household.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pleached Branches

When Rose drags her eyes over your naked skin, you can almost hear blades being whetted on silk. She always makes sure you know when she’s looking at you, as if you need any assistance when you can feel her burning gaze lapping up every inch of you. You want her to stoke that fire with the lash of that crop she keeps spinning against her immaculate black lips, but she refuses to touch you. She refuses to even lay a _single finger_ on you. Instead, she paces around you, her sharp heels driving deep into the tasteful jade carpet of your living room. You stare up at her, your goddess, her pale flawless skin wrapped up in black leather and laces that beg to be unwrapped with the careful touch of fang and finger. But of course she would never let you hear her beg, not when she’s _this_ Rose, towering above you and hopelessly out of reach. You could get up if you wanted to. Only your hands are tied, bound behind your back so you can’t give yourself any relief unless you want to rut on the couch cushions like some kind of animal. But you could never disappoint her like that.

She knows, of course. She knows that you can’t take your eyes off the sliver of skin between her stocking and the indecently small scrap of clinging silk that passes for underthings when you play this game. She knows well the desperation in your eyes as you track every flicker of her pink tongue over her black lips. And, more and more by the second as she circles you closer, she sees your hips beginning to rock of their own accord against the fabric of your seat.

Rose stops, and so does your heart. For a moment you think she’s going to walk away - it wouldn’t be the first time she’s done so, leaving you aching and alone and waiting. When she bends at the knee to look you in the eye, your throat closes up with want. _Rose_ , looking you in the _eye_.  You try not to notice her shiny eyes, her dilated pupils, the faint sheen of sweat on her skin, and at the same time your heart soars that she so visibly wants you.

“Kanaya,” she says, with just the tiniest flash of perfect white teeth behind her lips.

“ _Please_ ” spills out of your mouth and your toes curl in shame. One of her eyebrows slides up, imperceptible to anyone who doesn’t study her face like a quaint and eldritch tome.

“Begging so soon? We’ve barely started.”  

“I meant...” You swallow, your throat still dry. “I meant to ask you to please get on with it, we do not have all day.” She leans in so close you’re dizzy with the scent of her perfume.

“ _Get on with it_? I will _get on with_ _it_ when it _pleases me_ to get on with it.” She touches the tongue of the crop to your stomach, the first time she’s touched you since you started this evening’s session.  The leather licks you just above indecency, damp from her mouth, and she begins to drag it upwards. Your skin goosebumps in the crop’s wake, and you can’t stop yourself from squirming; you grit your teeth and gulp down your moans and look anywhere but at her. And then she takes your chin in her hand and _forces_ you to look her in the eye. That is, as much as Rose ever forces you to do anything; it’s more a caress of your jawline and a slight bite of her fingernails into your flesh, and you want to dare her to do more but now your eyes are locked on hers for good.

Rose draws the crop up between your breasts and lets it languish there for a moment. She tilts your chin down so you can see her handiwork, a black streak of lipstick along your belly, smeared from her lips to the crop’s tongue. It fades as it rises, vanishing almost entirely by the time it reaches your chest.

“Eyes up,” she tells you as you’re imagining the line dappled with lip marks. You seem to be too slow for her tastes, because you scarcely have time to put your eyes back on hers before she stripes the inner curve of your breast with her crop. All your practice at this doesn’t stop you from hissing in white-hot pleasure through your teeth. She laves the green-burning mark with the crop’s tongue, then trails the cool leather around your tightening nipple in slow, measured circles; moments later, before you even have time to recover, she replaces the fake tongue with her own, very real and very warm and very wet on your skin. You forget the pain of the crop-smack entirely when she wraps her lips around the tip of your breast, her dark lashes fluttering closed for a barely-noticable moment. She pulls back before you’ve had enough, as usual, and when she licks her lips the glistening connection left between you is broken.

Rose straightens up and tucks an errant strand of hair behind your ear and tweaks the tapered point hard enough to make you gasp.  “Quite the noisy girl, aren’t you,” she says, tsking. “Perhaps I should have gagged you after all. You’d like that, I bet. Moaning all you like without anyone hearing you. _Desperate_ for me to touch you, but unable to ask me to. A fitting punishment for someone so verbose.” She kisses your bent horn. “You are very lucky I delight in the sound of your voice.” Rose turns the crop around in her hand and drags the thick end back down your body, then right between your thighs, spreading you open with it, short-circuiting your brain with sudden sensation. She pulls it back far too soon, the wrapped leather shining with jade, and she makes sure you see every nanosecond of her spinning the thick, smeared crop between her lips. When she pulls it out with a theatrical _pop_ , it’s completely clean.

She says something once more, but it doesn’t filter through your brain, which is still trying to process what you just felt and saw, pleasure still ebbing through you. You stare at her pursed lips and try to reinvent speech, and your silence is rewarded with a matching lash on your other breast. Your voice rushes back to you in a long, stammering moan, your back arching of its own accord to present your chest to her. She seems to forget what she was saying as she looks down at you, the very tip of her tongue running over her top lip; she tucks the crop behind your back in your clasped, bound hands and departs the electric circle of your shared presence to pull an ottoman over and perch on the edge of it, legs crossed at the ankle. You’re about to ask her what she’s doing when she leans in and captures your lips with hers, further eliminating the possibility of speech and thought with her hands suddenly cupping your breasts. Her thumbnails drag around your nipples in circles that seem much less mathematically perfect than before, and if you weren’t blind and thoughtless with need you would swear you hear her panting into your mouth.

By the time she pulls her tongue out from between your lips, your breasts are hopelessly marked with the crescents of her nails and her hands are already wandering lower. You tilt your head back at the nudges of her nose against your earlobe and the flicker of her breath on your skin, and you’re rewarded with her beginning to suck at your neck, leaving marks you’ll wear like medals. You don’t need her urging to know to spread your thighs when her fingers touch your hips, and your obedience earns you an approving hum into your ear. She doesn’t even bother to feign surprise when her fingers slip inside you with almost insulting ease - an hour and a half of teasing and strutting and showing off has turned you into a slick, dripping furnace. Your latest filthy noise of pleasure is muffled in her shoulder, but not for long; not even porcelain skin can stifle your cries when she rocks her wrist and swirls her thumb, demonstrating the equal adeptness of her digits at arpeggios, purls, and climaxes.

You have as much chance against Rose as would a smudge of blood on her inner thigh faced with your approaching lips. It only takes three or four flicks of her thumbnail and curls of her fingers before you’re sobbing in ecstasy into her hair, ignorant of all the world as all your thoughts are washed away in a flood of orgasm.

When you come to once more, she’s lapping her fingers clean like a satisfied cat, her other hand undoing your bonds with a single tug. She takes the riding crop and tosses it onto the floor where Mutie will probably make off with it later.

“Thank you for allowing me my little indulgences,” she whispers, sounding almost shy as she turns and exposes her back to you. You undo the buckles and laces of her corset and add more than a few doting kisses to her smooth shoulderblades and the delicate bumps of her spine; the warm blush of her skin is matched in your heart.

“ _Your_ indulgences? Are you still under the impression that this is not a thing I want to do as badly as you?” You drape the corset over the arm of the couch, and as she turns she grabs her favorite pink bathrobe from next to it. She slips herself into it only halfway, leaving you plenty of room to snuggle into the other half when she joins you on the couch. And snuggle you do.

“Grammar, Kanaya. You meant ‘a thing you and I want to do equally as much,’ I think. Unless...” She taps a finger to her lips. “...you want to do me quite badly?”

“I think that is appropriate.” You press your lips against her temple and smile into her hair. This close to her, the long echoes of one-sided serendipity are inaudible.

“Crass, dear. Simply lewd.” She giggles into your neck, squirming about a little as the two of you get more comfortable against each other. Right on cue, Mutie pads into the room and bats the discarded riding crop around for a moment or two before he grows bored, as is the way of cats, and leaps up atop your tangled legs. Rose scratches him gently behind the ears while you stroke his back.

“A lucky cat.”

“A lucky Lalonde, you mean, to be attended by two fine specimens.”

You almost say _am I only a specimen now?_ , you almost say _so not all the scratches on your thighs are mine_ , you almost say _I will attend to you any way you like, Rose_. Instead, what comes out is “I love you.”

She rests her head on your shoulder and closes her eyes with a smile, her hand clasping yours to her soft stomach. “I love you, too, Kanaya.”

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Peaches," by Peter Davison


End file.
